As far
back as he can remember, Anwar Congo always wanted to be a gangster. In The Act of Killing, he
recalls going to a local movie theater in Medan, Indonesia, to see American
movies on the subject, and as a result, he and his friends started a group they
called the "movie theater gangsters."They would sell tickets to sold-out screenings to people on the street. After a military coup in 1965, Congo got his wish.

The
far-right, nationalistic, and militaristic government decided that they would
create enemies. They were
communists, union workers, and Chinese nationals. The plan was to exterminate these enemies, removing any and all
opposition to its rule. The
government used paramilitary groups, which still essentially control the country
to this day, and gangsters like Congo. By
the end of the purge, which lasted only five months, between 500,000 and 2
million people had been killed. It's
impossible to ascertain concrete numbers because of how disorganized the entire
brutal enterprise was.

Those
who ordered the killings are still in power and still spreading fear about a
possible threat just waiting for the opportunity to raise its head. Those who perpetrated the mass murders are free men and treated as
heroes.

Director
Joshua Oppenheimer went to Indonesia to confront Congo and some of his
accomplices under the guise of giving them the chance to tell their story in the
form of a movie. The only question
he poses to them: Why did they kill?

Claude
Lanzmann, the documentarian/journalist who has spent decades examining and
investigating the Shoah, has said that the question, in regards to that subject,
is obscene. He is correct. In a way, the mere act of attempting to understand inherently implies
that there is a reason, and in reason, there is a justification, whether one
believes the rationale behind it or not.

This is
the overwhelming hurdle that Oppenheimer faces, and his technique, which is
admittedly questionable but frighteningly effective, sidesteps that barrier. He is not searching for a
reason. In
feigning that he has a desire or curiosity to understand them, he has tricked
his subjects into revealing their true forms. The most terrifying thing about these men is the impression that they
would be willing to share their stories of torture and death without the
pretense of making a movie about them.

It
would be too easy to label Congo and his acquaintances "evil," but
then we see him and fellow gangster Herman Koto auditioning local women and
children for a planned scene that will recreate the burning down of a village. As Koto has the women and children scream for mercy, Oppenheimer cuts to
Congo—a chilling grin on his face at the sound of their wailing. It would be too easy, but in this and countless other moments like it in
the film, no other word comes to mind.

The
film is divided between interviews, the making of their "movie," and
the scenes they have shot. Every
piece has one goal: to expose them. They
share quite readily. Congo takes us
to place where he did most of his killing—the patio of the building across the
street from the movie theater. He
says how he would butcher his victims, but it became too messy. Taking a note from movies about the Mafia he had seen, he explains how he
began using wire to avoid a bloody mess. On
a talk show where Congo and his fellow "filmmakers" appear as guests,
the host becomes rhapsodic about their methods—a more humane way to kill
communists, she says, not trying to hide her enthusiasm.

Also on
that show are members of the Pancasila Youth, a paramilitary group that
organized death squads during the 1965-66 killings. Its leader is there to answer the question of why the children of those
who were killed have not tried to seek revenge. His answer is to the point: If they did try, they would be eradicated.

We meet
one of the children of the victims on the set of an interrogation scene. The man—in a cruel bit of casting, playing a communist under
interrogation who is about to strangled—suggests a story from his own past. When he was a child, his stepfather was taken away as a suspected
communist, only to be found dead—unceremoniously dumped on the road—days
later. He tells the story with a
smile, fearing that his point will be taken for what it really is and constantly
insisting that he isn't criticizing them.

The
"movie" scenes do not give us any understanding of these murderers'
reasons, but they do illuminate the way they see themselves. The interrogation scenes play in shadow as the killers, wearing suits and
hats (Congo has dyed his hair for no reason except vanity), imagine themselves
as their heroes from American gangster movies (Their attempts to rationalize
their actions come in the form of strange musical numbers).

Adi
Zulkadry, who flies to Indonesia with his wife and child (Of all the injustices
here, that these men have led normal lives after their horrific crimes is among
the worst), worries that the scenes will show that they—not, as the government
propaganda has been saying for decades, the communists—were the cruel ones. He's not scared of
repercussions. In
one scene he even welcomes the hypothetical scenario of being brought before The
Hague on charges of crimes against humanity because it would make him famous
(Let us hope he gets the first half of that wish). He's afraid it will oppose the government's version of history, which is
the same concern of a government official who watches the Pancasila Youth
recreate the burning of a village. He
has no problem with the act itself; he simply doesn't want them to look angry as
they do it.

This
is a horrifying, unflinching film with Congo serving as the darkest heart of a
past that continues to go unpunished and seems ready to repeat itself at any
moment. By a certain point, it
becomes clear that Congo is aware of his chance to present an idealized—in his
mind—version of himself, and he spends much of The
Act of Killing attempting to portray himself as the victim—haunted by
ghosts, playing a murder victim in the "movie," and sobbing without
tears. He's a fake, and Oppenheimer,
in a spontaneous act of composed outrage, challenges him on his phoniness. It may break the rules, but it's the only human thing to do.